I can’t remember how it went, exactly, because at the time I’d been drinking, but when I first met Heather B. – writing below – in person I was all like “I LOVE YOU” and she was all “DO YOU?” and I was all “DOOD! SHUT UP! I LOVE YOU!” and then I hugged her and slobbered on her and then – after a brief intermission to put a McDonald’s bag on my head (not this year, though; last year. This year I forewent the hat, the better to avoid security) – proceeded to talk her ear off about no end of fascinatingly banal things. And I would do it all over again, a million times. Because I love her that much. You got that, Heather? I LOVE YOU. And now that you’ve written ‘balls’ all over my blog, I love you even more.

I am a Scorpio in most every sense of the word. I am brooding, intense, tenacious, obsessive and if you piss me off; may God have mercy on your soul. The way that I am able to tick off each of these things and say, yes, that is what I am and I have no problems with it is an acceptance of self that has taken 24 years to realize and embrace. No one likes the girl who is over the top and extreme but I am also a loyal person and I will defend my beliefs and the people I love until I am blue in the face. I like being that person.

Then there’s the sex part of being a Scorpio: The belief that we, being the passionate sign, are inherently interested in sexual matters or that we use sex as an expression of love. It explains why through college I was referred to as ‘asexual’ or ‘prudish’ because I was physically unable to allow my brain to move to a point where I could go forth and get laid every single night. It was incomprehensible. And to think that I had friends who thought that I did not want to get laid? Are you fucking kidding me? I remember sitting with a group of girlfriends and I suddenly said out loud “Holy shit, I need to have sex”. My friend Pam looked as if the wind had been knocked out of her because “my God, YOU need to have SEX?! YOU NEVER TALK ABOUT SEX!” Yes, well just because I don’t feel the need to discuss it as I’m casually brushing my teeth or opening a bottle of Chenin-Blanc does not mean that I am not a human being who would like to get some ass.

But still it’s hard for me to just come out and use the word sex without my face feeling like its on fire. Why yes, I can play it cool, calm and collected but on the inside I cannot believe I just used that word and I said it OUT LOUD and in front of people. Meanwhile the conversation continues and I’m dying a slow and painful death in my head because I am an adult who just said ‘sex’. Even writing it just now I had to look around in my office, where the door is closed because it could be read on the screen because all of my coworkers have x-ray vision.

When guest posting was mentioned I casually emailed Catherine back to say “Ok! But it will be about balls and porn” and then I hid under my desk because I said balls and porn and perhaps I should use far gentler language for a person who has a Frankenvulva. And that was a big step for me because then I tweeted about the balls and the porn and each time I said balls and porn I raised my hands in the air and said, “Yeah I said it! BALLS AND PORN, MOTHERFUCKER! HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW?!” While feeling all drunk with power with my new found sexual freedom and ability to say porn in front of a few hundred people, I was feeling good. I was grinning. I went home and said ‘cock’ in front of my lesbian roommate because good lord, I can do it. And then I talked about my boobs with my male best friend and you guys, it felt AWESOME.

Then I went to work all prepared to write an essay about balls and porn and how much good balls and porn can bring to one’s life. The freedom that comes with the release of using both words casually. So I sat in my office in my comfy chair and started typing away because I was going to write about sex and it would win me a Pulitzer. And then I got a knock on the door. It was my mother. She sat down and asked what I was doing and about a trip we’re taking to Manhattan on Sunday and then she peeked over and asked what I was writing about. I could feel the sweat dripping off my forehead and down my back. My heart started to beat faster and yet I was prepared to say “Mom, I am writing about balls and porn and I may have just said cock”. I could feel the words coming off my tongue. I’m an adult. I can use these words, right? Right. And then I looked back at my gorgeous and lovely mother. My mother who summers on Martha’s Vineyard and abstains from alcohol and wears David Yurman. I couldn’t do it. “I’m writing about personal finance. About blogs and advertising and my mutual love and fear of Suze Orman”. She shrugged. “Oh…ok. Well bye”. And like that she was gone.

She closed the door behind her and I let out a sigh and whispered, “Balls and motherfucking porn”. Baby steps, people. Baby steps.